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“The thing is, what’s interesting about the Five Pointers isn’t the Five Pointers themselves. It’s what came after. They recruited and trained gangsters who grew to become even more powerful and vicious than Paul Kelly ever was. People like Al Capone.”
Harte shook his head. Of course he wouldn’t know the name. In 1902, Capone was still two decades away from being a player. But now?
“Capone’s probably the most famous bootlegger and gangster of the twentieth century… and he was based in Chicago.”
By then they’d been escorted inside, through the darkened bar to the back corner, where a table of men sat in a plush velvet booth that had clearly been selected so they had a view of the entire room. Esta recognized only one of the three—a man with hooded eyes, swarthy skin, a wide nose and mouth, and three long horizontal scars that cut across the left side of his face. Al Capone. He was younger than most pictures she’d ever seen of him—maybe around twenty. Even this young, he wasn’t a handsome man. His face hadn’t quite filled out the way it would in his later years, and his dark hair hadn’t receded yet from his round face. From his position at the table, he was clearly not the one in charge. Not yet.
The person who was in charge was seated at the center of the table, his back to a corner. He was an older man in his midforties. It had to be John Torrio.
Unlike Capone, Torrio didn’t have the deep olive skin of the Sicilian mobsters who would take over in the popular imagination. He was smaller, or he seemed to be next to his young protégé, with a narrow face and small eyes that turned down at the corners. There was something about Torrio that reminded Esta of a rat or some other member of the rodent family. Everything about him, but especially his confidence, seemed dangerous.
When she hesitated to approach the table, one of the bouncers escorting them took her by the arm. She tried to pull away from him—she probably could have, if she’d wanted to make a scene—but his grip was too secure.
The other bouncer pushed Harte forward, until he was squarely in front of the booth that held the trio of men.
“Harte Darrigan,” the man in the middle of the booth said, his eyes narrowing even more as he took them in. “I’ve heard of putting people on ice, but Jesus Christ, you haven’t aged a day.”
QUITE A PREDICAMENT
1920—Chicago
Harte could almost see the teenager he’d once run with in the older man sitting at the table in front of him. Same square face, same beady little eyes. But the skin of Torrio’s neck had grown loose, and his hair had turned a dull gray. If he hadn’t been expecting Torrio, Harte would have likely looked right past this older man—clearly, he had walked right past him without noticing already.
Still, when Torrio spoke, Harte was struck by how he hadn’t really changed all that much. Worse, Torrio was pointing out a significant issue—Harte hadn’t aged a day in comparison.
The larger guy next to Torrio, the one with the scars on his cheek, looked more interested in his drink than the newcomers his boss was talking to. “You really knew this guy back in the old days, Johnny?”
Torrio’s gaze slid to the scar-faced guy next to him before returning to Harte. “Oh yeah. Darrigan and I go way back.”
“It’s been a long time, Johnny,” Harte said, without so much as blinking. He wasn’t about to let Torrio see exactly how nervous he was. He needed to get Esta out of there, and preferably as quickly as possible. “You still working for Paul Kelly?”
“I took care of Kelly years ago,” Torrio said with a satisfied smirk. “Left New York for greener pastures not long after. This here is my club, and Chicago’s my city.” His expression turned even sharper. “Anything happens in my city, I know about it. So I gotta ask—what are you doing here, Darrigan?”
“I’m only here to take in the sights,” Harte said easily, even as his skin crawled with apprehension. “I’d appreciate it if your guy there took his hands off the girl.”
Torrio nudged the guy next to him. “You hear him? He’s talking like he’s in some kind of position to issue orders.” The two guys gave Torrio questioning looks, but then Torrio’s amusement drained away. “You think I’m dumb enough to believe that story? I ain’t some easy mark, Darrigan. Like I don’t know that you showing up here looking like some kind of ghost don’t mean problems.” His eyes narrowed. “You got one chance to tell me the truth—Why did Lorcan send you?”
“Lorcan?” Harte was too thrown off to hide the confusion he felt at hearing Nibsy’s last name come from John Torrio’s mouth. He only barely managed to pull himself together in the next breath. “I don’t know any Lorcan,” Harte lied. He didn’t risk glancing at Esta, but he knew she must have noticed the name as well.
“Bullshit,” Torrio spat. “You think I don’t know what’s what? You show up here, not even aged a day, and try to tell me it’s not some kind of hocus-pocus from Lorcan? What does he want this time? A bigger cut? Well, he’s sure as shit not getting any more from me. He sits safe in his little fortress back in New York and issues orders like I don’t know when he’s trying to pull my strings. James Lorcan might think that just because he’s given me some good tips, he can keep me on a leash like some kind of pet, but you can tell him those days are done, you hear? You tell him I don’t need his information anymore. I’ve been doing fine on my own. Or maybe I’ll tell him myself,” he said, his beady eyes narrowing, “once I get rid of you.”
“Johnny, you got it all wrong,” Harte said, holding up his hands in surrender. “I don’t know any Lorcan, and I certainly don’t work for him. I’m not here to cause you any trouble.”
“I don’t believe that for a second.” Torrio studied Harte as though he could read the lie simply by looking at him. “But maybe we should find out for sure.” He glanced at the two large security guys who’d ushered Harte and Esta to his table. “Take these two down to the tunnels and keep an eye on them. And have Mikey bring me the house phone. I have a call to make.”
Harte heard Esta’s gasp and turned to see the bruiser who had her by the arm already dragging her away. She was struggling against the guy, but he seemed to be able to counter every move she made.
“Enough,” the other one said, pulling a dark pistol on Harte. “Tell the hellcat there to stop, or you both get it,” he told Harte.
Esta froze at the bouncer’s threat, and her kohl-rimmed eyes went wide when she saw the gun pointing at Harte.
“It’s fine,” Harte told her, trying to keep it together. But his blood felt hot from seeing the other man’s hands digging into the bare skin of Esta’s arm. He hated knowing that there was no way he could fight these men—not in the shape he was in, weak as he still felt, and definitely not with a gun pointing directly at his gut. “This is nothing but a big misunderstanding. Johnny here is going to make a call, and he’ll see that we don’t know any Lorcan.”
Esta’s jaw had gone tight, and he could see the fury that shimmered in her eyes—and the fear that shadowed them. If Torrio made that call, Nibsy would know exactly where—and when—they were.
“Let’s go.” The bruiser who had Harte shoved him toward the bar. “You too, doll. And don’t try nothing.”
If Harte hadn’t taken the Quellant, maybe they could have escaped. A simple touch, a silent command, and they would have been free. It would have been worth the risk Seshat posed to get Esta away from John Torrio and his men. As it was, though, Harte’s affinity lay far beyond his reach. Still, even with the mess they had fallen into, he couldn’t really bring himself to regret taking it. Not when he still remembered how Esta had softened against him when he’d kissed her a few minutes before.
